


get in losers, we're going to the med bay

by welove1stickyboi



Category: Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Bloody Hands, Don't copy to another site, Gen, Irondad, just as a tw, like glass shards, okay the medical innaccuracy is strong with this one so thats a thing, think thats it good luck kiddos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-12
Updated: 2019-07-12
Packaged: 2020-06-27 05:45:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19784467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/welove1stickyboi/pseuds/welove1stickyboi
Summary: It was a lot less fun, Peter decided as he flew through the air, being thrown off of a building rather than throwing yourself off.The next thing he thought was, fuck.





	get in losers, we're going to the med bay

It was a lot less fun, Peter decided as he flew through the air, being thrown off of a building rather than throwing yourself off.

The next thing he thought was, _fuck._

He crashed into brick, knocking the air out of his lungs, a _crack_ sound coming from his back. Gasping on the ground, staring at the orange smog of the city sky as his head thudded back onto the concrete. _Oh my god._

Sometimes, he felt like he was a Saturday morning kids’ show protagonist, with some Dr. Doofensmirch-esque villain trying to blast him with something new every week. This time, they seemed to be testing some sort of portable catapult. _Mental note: Find it, set it on fire._

If this was a kids’ show, Peter mused, then the financial-related subplots had been killing it lately. ('It' was his appetite.) And the school ones. And the whole beating-up-the-main-character thing. He wished be could send a letter to the writers about that.

Cackling echoed in the distance; his assailant had left. Great.

His bones felt as though they had been thickly wrapped in dough, then hit against a wall several times. They _ached_. He drew in a deep breath, head spinning, and sat up. Peter winced at the headache that flared up at the small movement. His knee throbbed from where it had met stone. Yeah, he was done for tonight. He pressed his palms against the floor of the alley to keep his balance as he stood up, and snatched them back quickly. Something cold and sharp had sliced into his skin. He hissed, pushing his tongue hard against the roof of his mouth.

The orange glare from a nearby streetlamp reflected off of the shards of glass embedded in his fingers. He found himself hyperfocusing on the way the light moved as he tilted his hands, aware, one some level, that he was trying to avoid looking at the blood welling around the pieces. He staggered back to lean against the wall. _Breathe in, breathe out. You've dealt with worse than this._

Peter dragged in another breath, but it felt like it barely reached his lungs. A purple spot bloomed at the corner of his vision, and he gasped. That wasn't good.

“I - uh - Karen,” he breathed, still entranced by the dark liquid running down his fingers and staining the ground, “What's the quickest way home on foot?” He couldn't websling without his hands.

“ _Skinned Knee Protocol activated. Calling Mr. Stark,_ ” she replied. _What?_

“What? No! Karen, wait -” he protested, but the quiet buzzing of the suit had already changed to the static of a phone.

The blood looked like jet-black ichor kissing the very tips of the suit’s cheerful red gloves. It gleamed, swam dizzyingly, twisted as he twitched a finger. A single droplet spiralled off of the edge of it, sinking into the darkness near his feet. Colours were weird today, Peter decided. The darkness had a purple tinge too.

“Underoos! Karen said you were hurt. How bad is it?” Tony had a calm voice, steadying, and Peter found himself sliding back down the wall to end up on the alley floor again, carefully avoiding the bit where the bottle had met its demise. He drew in a shaky breath. Purple clouds burst into existence with the movement, and they seemed to have crept inside his head, too, making it difficult to find his thoughts in the lilac fog.

“Peter?” _Oh._

“Not -” He swallowed. “Not, uh , b-”

_“Peter has multiple deep lacerations in his hands. While not lethal as of present, if left untreated, they could be. I recommend picking him up,”_ Karen cut him off, calm as ever. _Snitch_.

Tony very quietly swore. He then cleared his throat. “Stick tight, kid. You're getting a ride from Ironman.”

“Yay,” Peter said blankly. He curled in on himself, drawing his knees up to his chin, hands carefully held out at arms length. The shards jostled, and he bit down on his lip. Hard. He couldn't get blood on the suit. Mr. Stark would kill him.

“What's that, spiderboy?”

It was weird. The glass wasn't cold anymore. Inside of his gloved palms was slick with blood. He could feel it welling up, over and over, pushing out of the cuts and dripping down underneath the spandex. His head span, and he tried to force in another breath. The spots in his vision had multiplied, framing the alleyway into the thickest mist of royal purple. It hurt his brain to try to squint through it. Peter let his eyes fall shut.

“Peter!”

“... yeah?” he managed. The voice that came out he could barely recognise as his own over the roar in his ears. Everything was underwater. Huh, Peter realized, that's why it was so hard to breathe.

“...en minutes, okay? Okay?”

“... got blood on the suit…” Peter said, scarcely hearing himself. The fog inside his head was loud, slipping into his ear canals and blocking them up. Mr. Stark wouldn't like blood on the suit. He’d be mad. “... kept m’ hands out…”

His head snapped up as he realised that his arms were resting on his shins. _No!_

Struggling, he lifted up his hands again, pushing them forward and away from his body. No blood on the suit. Mr. Stark’d be mad. His mind twisted and warped with the minimal effort, and it seemed to Peter that he was falling through its ever-changing landscape, trying to find something familiar to hold on to. The breath he took in was tiny, lukewarm. It brushed the edges of his lung, and exited before gas exchange could happen. Peter pressed his eyes into his knees and tried to ignore the burning in his arms. Another useless breath. “... no’ mad?”

“What? Peter, I'm nearly there, okay, I'm just gonna follow your-”

“‘kay,” he mumbled, squeezing his eyes shut and curling tighter. His arms hurt. “... there ‘s’no blood on th’ suit, I promise, mis’er stark…”

“That - that's fine, Pete, that was a good idea, you just keep -” A beeping interrupted him. “Here?” Peter was aware of something tromping down the alley towards him, and he weakly lifted his arms over his head to stop any coming blows. He felt the stretch of his muscles sap at his energy, sending his mind spinning again. Warm snow shuddered up his spine. A sharp intake of breath was heard, and suddenly he was being checked over.

“Pete? _Pete,_ okay, this is - _ah,_ that's what your she meant, Karen, how much blood-?” Tony, glorious Tony, was crouching in front of him, eyes dark and wide, mouth moving faster than Peter could comprehend, he looked concerned, and a hesitant hand reached over to tilt up his chin. “You’ve been through the wars, huh, kid?” he muttered, searching Peter’s eyes. Peter blinked.

Karen gave a reply, but he didn't register it. He let his head fall forward once more. So tired. He was so very tired.

“No, no, don't - I'm taking you to the compound, okay? That's not a question, although I'd love an answer, just for my peace of mind.”

Peter heaved a sigh into his knees.

“A for effort, kiddo. Let's get this show on the road,” Tony said briskly, still sounding a little worried as he stood up, brushing himself off.

Peter sank back into the concrete. “Break a leg,” he mumbled.

Tony barked a laugh. “There he is. C’mon, Spider-boy.”

Somehow, they managed to get Peter in the arms of the suit, being supported fully by the clunky limbs. His hands were hanging just off the metal. He didn't want to get blood on _two_ of Mr. Stark’s suits.

“... mis’er Stark?” Peter queried, face smushed into the warm metal plates as they flew. The helmet tilted down marginally, and Peter could almost imagine the man inside quirking an eyebrow.

“Yeah?”

“... y’ever feel like… your life isn't real…?” Peter carried on, gazing dazed out at the lilac-blurred night sky. “Like. A tv show or…”

Mr. Stark huffed what might have been a laugh. “Sometimes, kiddo.”

“Mhm.”

“M _hm._ You're going to need stitches. How did you get glass in your hands, anyway?”

“... m. Fell off a roof. ‘s pushed.”

“You were _pushed_ off a _roof_?” Mr. Stark sounded alarmed.

“... wasn’t r’lly polite,” Peter murmured, too tired to be indignant.

“ _Wasn't_ _poli_ \- no. No, it wasn't, Pete.”

“Mhm.”

“M _hm_.”

“M _hm_.”

“ _Mhm_.”

“M _hm_.”

“M _hm_.”

“...one more time,” Peter slurred, absent-mindedly recognising the rhythm.

“ _Ha_ ,” Tony shot back.

_Aside_ from the beating-up-the-main-character-thing, there was definitely one thing the directors of his insane show did get right.

Peter closed his eyes, and listened to the suit’s familiar hum, knowing he’d be fine.

The family-related subplots? They’d absolutely nailed it.

**Author's Note:**

> so anyway he doesn't get nerve damage and they have a talk about how peter's health is more important that th suit (muchos hugs) the End


End file.
